Watson's B&B
by Spy'd R
Summary: John inherits the B&B in Scotland from his late aunt.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story about two men, a story about a short period of their lives, and an even shorter period of their relationship. Love isn't new to them (in fact, it was love at the first sight); but admitting. Sadly though, this story begins with a death; the death of an old lady. Her name had been Martha Campbell-Watson, and the official reading of her will in London, is where this story starts.

"Thank you, for coming with me. I still don't get it. Auntie Martha always was such a vital person. A pity, she died that young. I mean, she only was 67..."

The other man looked up to where the rain was falling. With one hand he held the umbrella and with the other, he stroked the back of his lover.

"You're right. It's under the average." To admit, he wasn't very good with nice words, and even worse at comforting. "We should go in now. You'll get a cold."

The solicitor's office was in the third floor of a beautiful old building. It was also warm and dry, and there were wood and oriental carpets everywhere.

"Are you Dr. Watson?" the voice came from behind and frightened him for a moment.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Good morning. Yes, I'm Dr. John Watson. And you must me Mr. Abbot."

"In person. Please follow me into the private section." While they walked over to the small extra room, Mr. Abbot continued. "Your aunt was a very nice person. She loved you most, I believe."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because you're the only heir, John." Sherlock Holmes still stood behind John.

"That's right, sir. Are you ready Dr. Watson?" the Doctor nodded and the notary began to read.

"Dear John. Since you've gone to the army, and your uncle Arthur has died I'm worried about you both; even Harry. The reason I can't give her everything is, that this is everything I still have in this world. In case you are married by now, and maybe even have children, they surely will love it. For I want to pass "Berry Cottage" on to you. I always believed that you were the right person to sustain the business. Here, in my last will, I decree, that you Hamish, have to keep my beloved B&B in Inverness going. But don't worry John, all your financial needs are provided. So never forget the good times we had and don't cry too much. All lives end eventually. I love you all. Yours forever, auntie Martha."

John collapsed into the chair behind him. "What...what? What did just happen?"

"It seems, you've just inherited a Bed and Breakfast, John. In Inverness."


	2. Chapter 2

**Fluff.**

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John Watson sat in his armchair; thinking. He thought about the previous events, not yet able to grasp the sudden death of his beloved aunt. He had really loved her. Yes, she might have been a little bit queer, but what did it matter? She had been a kind person, well educated and a genius when it came down to social skills, which was probably the reason, why she ended up running a little B&B after her husband's early death. John wrecked his brain, but couldn't come up with a single reason, that explained why he had inherited it. He wasn't ready to go away, not now, not without Sherlock. He stared blankly into the cracking fire. He knew that he couldn't just abandon it, or have the strength to sell it just like that. John really needed help on this matter.

Sherlock lay on the sofa; thinking, thinking about John. He saw, even in his blurred shadow, that he wouldn't be able to find a solution himself. And when it came down to Sherlock, he wouldn't let John go; not just like that. He would of course come with him. Crimes and cases were also to find on the countryside, or in Scotland. No problem. His silver eyes scanned what he was able to see of the Doctor from his angle. _Head rested on hands. Occasional, heavy breathes. Thinking. Negative thoughts. Worried. About what? Can't be figured out. More data required. Which method of gathering missing data? Oral conversation. Warning. Target of conversation is in fragile emotional state. Social knowledge to call._ If his assumptions were correct, John was worried that he wouldn't want to come with him, but what John didn't know was that Sherlock would follow him everywhere.


	3. Chapter 3

**More fluff.**

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Cold fingers came to rest on John's shoulders, and made him rock back into the cushions of the backrest. Silver eyes were fixed on his, drawing his attention almost painfully on them. He couldn't focus; everything was blurred, except of those concerned eyes. They were the centre of his universe, until a voice joined them. Suddenly the world was back again, and those heavy thoughts were gone. At least for now.

"John?"

"Hmmmm." There wasn't even a questioning tone in it.

"Why are you so worried?"

John shook his head, as if he wanted to wake up from a dream. He knew that Sherlock had changed, since they officially declared their love to each other, but it was still quite strange to hear him ask this. A wail of despair escaped his throat and his face disappeared in his hands.

"John. I'm being serious. You look completely worn down."

John muffled something through his hands. Sherlock pulled them away from the face he loved. It mustn't be hid. Sherlock didn't need to say anything else, because the question lay right in his wrinkled forehead. John freed one hand, to gently stoke them with his thumb. He looked back at his detective, as if he would see his marvellous, perfect face for the last time.

"I'm worried about this whole situation I'm in, Sherlock. I don't want to disappoint my aunt, you know?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but John shushed him in simply going on.

"Of course you don't. What was I thinking?"

"Explain it, then. Prove me, my deductions are right. Besides, I want you to be happy, just, if that helps you with your decision. I would go anywhere with you."

John was silent. _Four seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Far too long._

"What? What is it now?" Sherlock couldn't bare the lack of words in the room. He needed to know, if there was something wrong, for there was always something. There was another, smaller silence, that didn't last half as long.

"Could- could you just say that again? Only so I know, it was real."

"I would go anywhere with you."

John licked his lips. "I know that it's you, who said that, but do you actually know, what you're talking about? Is it clear to you what this is all about?"

"So I was right." It was not more than a mutter under his breath. John of course had heard it very well. "Certainly I'm aware of the circumstances, John. And I have to repeat myself: I'm being serious. If this Bed and Breakfast means so much to you, then we'll go up there and settle down. It's all the same to me, there's one thing that won't happen; ever; I'm not letting you leave."

John grinned; but it wasn't just a simple grin, no, it was a smile that lit up the whole flat with the bright light of happiness. He was probably also holding back tears of joy, but if so, they stayed unnoticed, did they?

The doctor jumped up, almost knocking his head against Sherlock's, hugging him with all the energy he had left, and said cheerfully, "So Scotland it is."

"Inverness, here we come."


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks passed. For the two lovers, it was a time, as joyful as it was a hectic one. Even Sherlock, who was more or less, well, who indeed was publicly known for his lack of feelings, and his cold logic, made no secret of his looking forward. First they had sent all their belongings to their new address, before arriving there themselves, a week later. When they finally stepped out the train in Inverness, the sun was shining to greet them, as it seemed, for the sun doesn't show its face that often to this region, than to other parts of the island. Sherlock beamed, when he caught the first glimpses of the city. This was so new, so different from what he was used to; it was an adventure. Looking down to his lover, though, he realised, that there was something wrong. He was once again unable to deduce. John would be the only puzzle that would always stay unsolved, and it was good; felt right.

"John?" Sherlock lifted the other man's head slightly with a gentle movement of his right hand.

"What is it?" a kiss was passed on from one man to the other.

"I'm worried, you know? About everything. Tell me, Sherlock" John's eyes narrowed; longed for just one serious answer, nothing more. "Was it a good idea to leave Baker Street?"

There was no need at all to hesitate; not even for a second. He also was so truly convinced, that, if he had said this, two years before to a man named James Moriarty, nobody, would have ever doubted him. Still it is fortunate that he didn't, because otherwise, they wouldn't be there now, and these words wouldn't have been spoken. "'Of course it was a good idea, love."

Sherlock, straight forward and packed with almost infinite energy walked straight on, leaving a stunned John behind; at least the few yards one needs to realise the empty space at his right side. He wrinkled his forehead.

"What?"

"What- Did-did you just call me...?"

"We're a couple, John. Quite a while now, well, 407 days, to be exact. I just assumed, this would be the right name to call the man I love."

"Yeah. You're right. Of course. It was right. Just perfect, honey."

There was a tender grin on both faces, and hands curling up into each other. Yes, just perfect.


	5. Chapter 5

Clouds started to put the wonderful, blue sky in a wild, gray dress, announcing yet another gentle Scottish shower. It had been raining _that_ evening too; two long years ago. John just couldn't get this moments out of his head right now. He slipped deeper and deeper into the memories of this strange day until he relivde it. Suddenly; a slight bump ripped him out of his daydream. But, can something that really happened be a daydream? The answer was of such philosophical a nature, that John couldn't possible find the answer. Maybe Sherlock could; he could work out everything. That was, what John loved so much about him. And the fact that he was now- even it had lasted five years- willing to learn. There was a movement, and a cool breeze brushed against his skin as the door of the taxi opened.

"John? We have arrived."

Neither of them believed in such things as auras, but in this very moment, both of them felt the immense knowledge of the old, Victorian house. It was like it was saying, "go and try if you can surprise me. I've seen so many things; I bet you can't." I can assure you, it was astonished and proud of both of them; but they have yet to prove it.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around the dumbstruck John's waist. They stood there for a while, just regarding their new home. Even when Sherlock finally wanted to make his way in, John grabbed his hand and pulled him back. He just needed to understand this; needed to grasp what was happening. After a long while of just staring, John hugged Sherlock as tight as he could, and whispered, close to tears, "Nothing has changed!"

The inside of the building looked rather luxurious. There was a faint smell of toast, fired eggs, coffee and dust in the air. As Sherlock took a deep breath, he noticed something else that John had forgotten over the years; a faint odour of...berries. His mind analysed the reasons, and assumed there had to be some sort of candles or simply a spray that caused the scent. He would some time later find out that he was wrong.

"Sherlock! Don't you want to look around?"

He had completely forgotten to move on. The scent had somehow paralysed him; reminded him of something deep down in his memories.

"Coming!"

When the couple was finished with regarding their new premises, John decided to make them tea. Hot chocolate was unfortunately out of the question, for the fridge had to be filled. Sherlock was out in the garden, having a look at the plants. The rain had turned into a downpour, and the downpour was rapidly changing into a thunderstorm. Suddenly the doorbell rang. John, who had placed himself in front of the fireplace on a cushy, clean carpet with two steaming mugs of tea, jumped up. Like in a trance, he ran to the door. It was too familiar. When he opened the door, a soaked Sherlock smiled at him. A wet kiss followed. Suddenly also he understood, reading the memory from John's eyes, and remembered too, the scent from before.


	6. Chapter 6

**I wrote this chapter for "Wingatron", who had the beautiful idea to introduce their confessings. Thank you!**

**PS: I hope you like it... :3**

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- Two years previously -

The hard, angry drops splashed against the windows. A mighty lightning. It lit up the room with its mere 10000 volts, expressing John's feelings dramatically. The air inside was hot, damp and worn. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something; or more accurately: someone. Didn't he? Wasn't he angry with Sherlock Holmes? He wasn't so sure anymore. Another lightning. This time it gave him a fright. It suddenly wasn't what he felt anymore. He wanted Sherlock back and have the bastard explain why it had been necessary to hurt him so much. Again, John felt the rage forcing his jaw to clench. A thunder. Five minutes of silence, until there was a sound. It was the doorbell. John jumped up from before the dark fireplace and raced down the stairs like hell. He didn't really know, what exactly it was, that made him run; not now. On the other side of the door, there was Sherlock Holmes. He was soaking wet and trembling, but John didn't care. He couldn't control himself anymore. His hand hit the other man's face. Blood was dripping down his nose now, mixing with the raindrops.

"I told you to stay away from me! Why don't you ever listen!?"

Sherlock didn't even bother about his nose.

"Because that's me, I suppose. That's what I do."

"You should, you know? I may be a stupid idiot, but I still remember everything of my army-days. So why did you return?"

"I came back to explain. That's what you want, isn't it?"

John licked his lips, pulled a face, but still waited.

"I'm waiting, Sherlock."

"What, here? You got to let me in, I'm freezing."

"No you don't. It's hot. You. Don't. Freeze."

"Let me in."

He sighed and finally let the detective in. It was now three months ago, since he had returned. Rose from the dead. It also wasn't the first time that John punched Sherlock. The first time was, to check if he was real, the second time to express his rage and to get rid of him. Forever. It didn't work tough. Sherlock was John's ghost. He haunted his mind. Even if the rage was still there, he wanted to talk to him. The detective had wanted to make his soldier see. He had tried as well as he could, but that wasn't enough. One day he had understood that. The problem was just, that John wasn't only his blogger, but also his ghost, who just didn't stop haunting him, the matter what he did.

"John. I had to go bec-"

"You already told me. Twice. I definitely don't want to hear it again. If it's just this story you want to tell be, you can leave straight away from where you came."

"It's not the only thing. I have some questions to you too."

"Why would you ask me anything. You're the-"

"What?"

"...the genius."

Sherlock looked at the drops, falling from his nose to the floor, vanishing in the carpet. An unseen grin appeared on his face.

"Before I ask, you need to know, that I am not the man you used to know anymore."

"So who are you then?"

"...I don't...know yet. I travelled a lot, in these three years, when I was away. That changed me, I suppose. I came to a conclusion, which I'll tell you later. You must know, that, if one rules out the improbable, what remains, however impossible, must be the truth. There's no doubt in that. Just let me ask you this: Have you ever, when you thought I was...well...have you ever stopped thinking about me?"

John's eyes widened. His pulse rose. There was only one right answer; and this was the truth.

"Never."

"I know." Surprisingly both men giggled. John drew back as soon as he noticed what he was doing.

"So what is it, you boldly came across."

"You probably don't want to hear this-"

"Then keep it to yourself."

"I can't. I need you to know." The expression on Sherlock's face was the one of a little boy, caught red handed at stealing from the cookie tray, who had additionally burnt his hand.

"I love you, John. I always have. It needed death to make me see."

John stared. Every fibre of his body was paralyzed. No movement was possible for what seemed to be ages. It felt like a billion seconds until he sunk back into the armchair. Sherlock worriedly grabbed his hand, looking into his eyes, from down on his knees. And then, in this very second, John realised, that he had also loved his detective all day long. That was the reason for all his short relationships, with his many girlfriends. It had always been Sherlock. It was theit destiny to come find each other, and be bound forever. It simply had to be. Because not even death could stop them. Without any more unnecessary words, John pulled Sherlock up to him, it once was different, and slowly kissed him. This was his answer. His personal yes. His agreement. His forgiving. And Sherlock swore, that he would never, ever forget this sweet scent of berries, that suddenly filled the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**More fluff than you could ever imagine, as a bit of a "sorry" for not having updated so long... :)**

**Cheers!**

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Waking up was good. The first time after the war, John was woken by sunshine, and felt entirely chuffed. Well, chuffed may be not the right word. It was more than just that. Yes, one could say he was happy. Sherlock moved in his sleep next to him. His skin- usually much colder than John's- now felt warm against his own. The weight of an arm rested on his chest. It was only now, that John realised, that one thing was also different; he wasn't in their bed. Slowly he remembered that he didn't belong there anymore. This was his –their new home. He still wasn't in bed. He lay on a bedside carpet in front the chimney in the living room of their new house. A thought came to his mind and he lifted the blanked. He was naked; and so was Sherlock. A wave of hazy memories flooded his brain. After a little while, they became ever more vivid, until John had to laugh hard and loud. The laughter was a by-product of the sheer happiness he felt right now. He didn't even stop, when Sherlock awoke and grunted in displease. In fact, it made his laughter only louder.

Of course Sherlock would never understand what John had laughed about. It wasn't what he was made for. And so was shopping. But even he saw the point in filling the stocks and agreed to come with John to the supermarket.

Outside, John continued being happy. He felt like nobody could ever stop him. He inhaled until his lungs felt like they would burst any moment; smelled the scent of the previous rain. Again he smiled, and then placed a passionate kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Mmmh. John. Don't you care?"

"Care about what?"

"About the neighbours." Sherlock pointed at an elderly lady who was just digging the weeds in her yard.

"Today I don't care about anything, you know? I'm just so happy."

"Happy..."

"Yeah. Entirely happy. And before you ask: It's because of...well everything. But mostly because of you, I guess. Because you're here with me. It's just amazing." A faint smile appeared on the detective' face; and if you looked close enough, you could see his lips form a faint "thank you" in reply.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock, we have to invite at least some of the neighbours before we take on business again."

The expression on Sherlock's face was the one of someone who had just been hit in the face, and hadn't seen it coming.

"Why? What for?" John's eyebrows rose what seemed to be more than one yard.

"Seriously? I thought you came from a good family, and expected you to know this sort of stuff."

"And I thought you knew I was sociopathic."

"Are you really not mocking me? Or... let me put it this way: do you honestly expect an answer from me?"

There was no need for Sherlock to say anything.

"Alright. We're going to do it, Sherlock, because it's polite, and we're now living on the country, in one of the most conservative parts of the United Kingdom. We have to invite them and, at least, introduce ourselves. I'm sure they all loved auntie Martha and have high expectations in us." I need to interrupt John at this point, to clear things up. A bit. Of course John was right when he said that they all had loved his aunt, but there was something he got entirely wrong: This place isn't in the least conservative.

"You want me to make a good impression..." even before Sherlock could finish off his sentence, he saw the longing in his lover's eyes. It was like he was saying _please, just this once, Sherlock. Just this one time, be the best you can be! You know what happened when you ignored these words last time, so just listen to me._ Now, even the stubborn Sherlock Holmes gave in.

"Alright. I'll do my best. I think Saturday would be the best day for such an event. Statistics say that most people are home on a Saturday evening."

"Fine. Thank you, darling. I love you."

"I ummm...love you too. John." When it came down to confessions, Sherlock was still always a bit flustered. Just like a seven year old. Then there was a quick kiss, and the conversation moved on. "So, now we've got the food, but what about interior? I mean, we can't sleep in front of the chimney every night, but to be honest, I can't mentally manage it to sleep in the bed of my dead aunt. It just...Sherock? Where are you going?!"

Sherlock just turned around on his heels and went away. Of course he'd known John would follow him. He always did. They went up the stairs, and into the bedroom of John's aunt. Before he pushed the handle, he put on his triumphant gaze.

"I knew you would say that. So I arranged this." He finally opened the door, and there it was. John's old bed from Baker Street; the one he'd slept in, when they hadn't been together. Now a time, which seemed to have never existed.

"Oh my GOD!" first he walked around the bed, as if to check it was not just an optical illusion, then he jumped onto it, like in a bouncing castle, and finally sunk into the mattress, giggling like a child. "How have you done this?! I've sold it as soon as we started sharing one bed!"

"Well, so I bought it back. More or less. Mycroft sends his regards."

"Ah, now I see! You'll have to say thank you some time. But now shut up and come here! I feel like cuddling."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the previous chapters (which I did delete anyway), but I was really ill when I wrote them. I should never touch a computer when I'm ill. That's obviously no good idea. ;)  
**

**So here you are: a new chapter, and it's some kind of a special, because it's merely a transformed song. I'll list the disclaimer and the credits at the bottom, so that those who know it, can guess, and those who don't know it but like it can buy it (and so I don't get sued by some managers and so on... ;))**

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Sherlock only realised that he must have been asleep, when he woke up later that afternoon. It had done him very good. For the first time in a long time his body felt strong, and relaxed at the same time; his mind, if not still a bit sleepy, felt as sharp as a diamond-blade. And that was when he realised, that it all came down to John. He was the person who made him sleep, who could make his relentless mind finally shut down its engines and tame the ghosts on his head. All his life he had looked for someone like this; someone who could break his stubbornness and teach him how kind human love could be, even if it was just for a while. When he recalled the three years without John, he remembered that love could also hurt like fire and blind like the sun; even him; Sherlock Holmes. But maybe, time was also a factor that he'd forgotten. Probably, both of them had been too young to understand; probably only his head was just too strong to see that love was not only weakness, but could make him, well, wiser. The first time he'd kissed John, it was (merely) a cover, for they were catching a criminal in a gay-club, and far, far away from love, Sherlock had felt numb. Now, with every kiss, he felt more and more vivid, like it was colour, running though his veins. Wordlessly he whispered those certain three words, and his eyes became tender, when he came to think about death once more. He had paid the price before, and hoped John would never ask him what it was like; he didn't want to go through it ever again. But still there was this silent rage inside him, often followed by a wave of relief, when thinking about Moriarty, and the fact, that he could avenge his own misery, and the one John had had to go through. "So", he went on thinking, "when something happens to me, oh lord, please John, forgive me. Because if you can't, just let me die right there, because I don't deserve anything else. I remember the day, when you had to take my hand, and you tried to help me. I'll never forget that."  
It was right then, when John opened his eyes. He yawned, stretched and, as soon as he was fully awake, he smiled the sweetest of smiles, just for Sherlock. Now there was a new thought in his head. What if something ever happened to John? Sherlock knew, that there was no excuse for it; nothing, neither any drink nor poison nor drug, that he could ever lift his curse off him again. So this was the day when Sherlock Holmes decided to protect John Watson, whatever the cost, because he was already cursed with a spell: the spell of his lover's eyes.

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_Credits: "Lover's Eyes" by Mumford and Sons_

_NOT MINE! (most of it...)_


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